Lately, alone time has been a rarity.
I’m thankful, because that’s entirely due to good fortune: My friends are wonderful, active, and spontaneous. Many of my creative projects are blossoming. My career is slowly but surely taking off. Each day with my boyfriend is an awesome adventure. My local rock gym is essentially my second home. The many hats I wear are stacked high right now. And, finally, summers are never long enough for all of the Things To Do.
Often too much time will pass before I finally admit, “Not tonight. I need a break.”
Anyway, as this past week has been jam-packed, I’m grateful to carve out some solitude. But I remember a time when it wasn’t always something that I cherished.
Last year, most of my nights were spent alone. Every night around 11pm, I’d stumble home after a long day (climbing from 6am to 9am… freelancing or rehearsing at 11am… working each afternoon until night-time in Toronto’s Greektown, bracing myself for the sad realization that I was too broke to afford nice pastries from Serano Bakery).
Those damned things taunted me every time I walked by.
Upon exiting the subway at Bloor-Yonge station, I’d sprint home on Yonge to avoid strung-out addicts, hookers in the dark, and UofT students forming walls across the sidewalk. Sometimes I’d call my ex on the way. There was an ongoing fantasy I had of surprising him with sweets and spending the night together. Ultimately, he proved flakier than any pastry could be:
“Not tonight, Cy.”
“I’m busy, Cy.”
“I can’t, Cy.”
Eventually, I lost my appetite altogether.
Sitting above the Starbucks on the corner, my Toronto apartment was simultaneously cozy and yet too large for just me. I’d walk inside from the cold, reheat frozen dumplings for the umpteenth time, and people-watch the Yonge & Wellesley intersection from nine stories up.
I contemplated fostering animals to fight my loneliness. Even an elderly, sick cat could’ve been a great friend for at least a few months.
With time, I made friends in my building (the brilliant salsa-dancing violinist above, the reclusive vocal coach next door, the witty doorman obsessed with American politics). Other friends would visit and we’d make music, cook dinner, and chat about “Life.” “Life” moved so quickly in Toronto that several weeks would fly by despite winter seeming to drag on forever.
While “Life” may have appeared harmonious from the outside, I began to feel empty, like an animated shell of my former self. A nagging desire to leave Toronto kept intruding into my apartment each night. It never left me alone. You know how they say that one’s true thoughts may be revealed in complete solitude or in dreams? I found that to be true, and the city was slowly revealed to be far from home.
Here in Jersey, alone time has been a rarity. There are times when I wish I could hit pause on everything spinning in its orbit, times when I wish I could catch my breath. And yet, I will always choose to be too busy moving forward rather than stalling,
too busy adventuring rather than waiting for the phone to ring,
too busy eating the beignets my boyfriend surprised me with,
too busy creating my story rather than letting others dictate,
and too busy living.